


Blood, Sweat, and Steel

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 21:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17433530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Despite appearances to the contrary, there are many places in the wide world where Thorin Oakenshield can find happiness, but only one where he can find peace.For lferion, based on the prompt, "Thorin making something fine."





	Blood, Sweat, and Steel

**Author's Note:**

> This is a wee little story, but it's nice to write Thorin not worrying about anything!

The ancient legends had it that all flames were sparks generated from the Maker's forge. All braziers, hearths, and camp fires lit with eternal flame. Every forge a temple. 

Thorin was not an unobservant dwarf, but neither was he an especially spiritual one. He'd never collapsed, blind and deaf to the present as his ears and eyes were opened to great and terrible visions. He did not cast stones or read tea-leaves to divine the future. He left that to others whose minds and hearts were more expansive by far than his mean flesh.

And yet, as he let the forge-fire lick his palms to test the temperature, as he felt the sweat pool at his temples and wind trails down the lines on his face, he thought he could almost feel that unknown other world around him, the Halls to which all dwarrowkind were bound nearer than usual. Nearer, even, than the dream of Erebor. 

There was always a sanctuary to be found in the forge for him. Once, as a boy, he thought to become a scholar. Many was the hour he spent hidden away with a lantern and a book in some dark place, reading about long-past adventurers in far-off lands, campaigns of glory, epics of romance. He thought he might find his passion, what he was Made to do amongst the scribes and scholars of Erebor's vast libraries and scriptorium.

And though he'd never lost his fancy for books, that was all it was. A joy. A hobby. Paper and ink gave him pleasure, but it was only in the forge that he found peace.

The working of the bellows, breathing new life into old fire, the strike of the hammer upon the anvil, like a heartbeat, and the sheer joy and wonder of creation. Taking formless metal and giving it shape. More than that, giving it purpose. The bounty of the hills and mines, brought, to the Maker's blessings and the hard work of his hands, to life. Here a knife. There a sword. A helm. Shield. Knitting needles. Hooks and eyes for clothing. All work, no matter how small, honored their Maker though its usefulness. 

_All_ work, aye, but there was something special in weaponsmithing, the special craft of his people. Even the proudest Ironfist in her secret cave could incline her head to Longbeard steel. The finest work by the finest hands. As beautiful as it was deadly, finely balanced and keenly wrought, no mere ornamentation meant to be taken out for polishing and put away again, admired with the eyes. No, Longbeard swords and axes, it was said, looked best by far in motion, striking up, cleaving in twain, their curving silver blades stained red or black with the blood of their foe. Whenever a song was sung of great deeds throughout the realms beneath the earth, one could be assured that the named weapons of history had a Longbeard smith on hand to strike, draw, and punch it into useful goodness, for to praise their Maker, bring glory to their people, and satisfaction to the master whose work it was. 

It was a sword to which Thorin applied his skill; commissioned by a Blue Mountain Lord for a sum that would keep his people in clothes and shelter for a twelvemonth. There was no shame in the asking such a price, nor pain in the payment; a princely sum for a prince, after all.

Although his sister had the best eyes for close work, Thorin was commissioned to do the job from start to finish. With a loupe, he punched out the design, a stylized vision of the Blue Mountains before the War of Wrath. Proud peaks, tall and aligned, without the sloping valleys and gutted roadways centuries of war and travel reduced them to. A tribute to the past, carved into a weapon that would assure protection in the future. 

He did it all. From striking the steel for the blade, to afixing the pommel to tying neat leather around the grip. The blade's edge was sharp enough to cut a clean line through thick leather, light enough to be wielded single-handed, and strong enough to batter its way past bone and sinew. Beautiful. Close to perfect as a mortal dwarf could forge with mortal tools. 

There was no thought in his mind, but the work. No heavy weight of royal duty, no worries about squabbling families, nor anxieties about the tax collection. Not even a divvying up of his princely sum with calculations as to what was the best use for the money. There was the hammer. The fire. And himself. 

In the end, their work was all that mattered.


End file.
